


The Unseen Seam

by misbegotten



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Kid Fic, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9459641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: It had, after all, been a ridiculously long day.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Series 4 spoilers ahoy!
> 
> Many thanks to out_there for the beta. All faults remain my own.

My name is not my name. Let me explain.

I did not speak until I was four years old. My mother was frantic with worry but my granddad, who was a doctor, explained that there was nothing wrong with me physically. I was just, it seemed, not in a talking mood.

My mother did not find that funny.

My other grandfather's brother, whom I also called grandfather (it does get confusing, sorry), sat down and _looked_ at me (his piercing eyes are one of my earliest memories), then pronounced that I would talk when I was ready. That seemed to settle the matter.

Granddad, whom I adored, read to me and played games and never pushed me to speak. He was gentle and kind. My other grandfather, whom I also adored, read to me and played games and talked to me non-stop. He was endlessly inquisitive, and granddad once had to stop him from measuring the length of my tongue to compare with various samples he had prepared from corpses acquired from dubious sources.

At any rate, it was to him that I first spoke. My other grandfather. Granddad and I were playing a game and it was my turn, so I went to my other grandfather and touched him on the knee and said, rather quietly, "Tag."

A slight smile passed Grandfather Sherlock's lips. And henceforth I became known as Tag.

Everybody seems to think they own a piece of my grandfathers. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are, of course, household names. They're generally wrong. Anderson's "biography" in particular is a travesty. But I have my own stories, learnt at Granddad John's knee, and also through his letters, e-mails, private journals. I have the tales told by Grandfather Sherlock, punctuated by the occasional bon mot from Grandfather Mycroft.

Here, then, is one of my stories. It's a love story.

*

Sherlock Holmes took John Watson for granted. Everyone knew it. Lestrade knew. Donovan knew ("I warned him, didn't I? Sherlock Holmes doesn't have _friends_."). Mycroft knew ("What life?" Sherlock had said, and Mycroft had pitied his brother for a moment). Even Mrs. Hudson was aware of it ("But what do I know?" she sniffed. "I'm just the tea lady.").

Mary knew. Mary knew that John took Sherlock for granted too. It was taking Sherlock for granted that broke John's heart when Mary died. Was killed. Because Sherlock had made a vow and John counted on it. John took Sherlock's miracles for granted. So there was a split. Even Mary's posthumous intervention seemed unlikely to mend it.

And then an east wind came.

It did not solve their problems. If nothing else, there was the issue of Sherlock's prolonged abuse of his body.

"I'm not going to nurse you," John said, wincing mentally as he spoke. Mary had been a nurse, but not a nurse. More than a nurse. John pondered, occasionally, that her intimate knowledge of human anatomy had been a part of both of her careers. It was a troubling thought.

"I don't need a nurse," Sherlock whinged. It wasn't a pretty word, but then it wasn't an attractive sound. He threw himself on John's sofa and drew up his collar, as if to stave off the coldness of John's tone. They were at John's flat, Baker Street still in ruins. Rosie remained at large with Harry, thankfully, under guard in an anonymous hotel room away from the grasp of Sherlock's sister.

"You obviously do," John objected. And winced physically as he spoke, because he was talking himself into a corner. Sherlock needed medical care, John was a caregiver, _ipso facto_ Sherlock was his responsibility, as always.

Sherlock burrowed more deeply into his jacket. "I need to see Eurus. I need to ensure that she is safely... cared for."

John snorted. "Let Mycroft handle it."

"Mycroft bungled it rather badly last time," Sherlock pointed out disdainfully. And yet, there was something in his tone that touched John. The echo of his earlier request to Lestrade to take care of his brother.

John noted the weakening of his own resolve with self-disgust. And some degree of inevitability. Sherlock had fished him out of a well. Of course, he wouldn't have been in the well if it weren't for Sherlock. But one might as well blame Mike Stamford for introducing them in the first place.

John made a mental note to punch Stamford at the next available opportunity and turned his attention to a clinical observation of Sherlock's symptoms.

\-- Infantile insistence on ignoring the obvious; typical Sherlock. It was not a mystery, therefore it was something that could be ignored.

\-- Rapid heart rate; John could practically see the pulse racing in his throat. Sensing John's glance, Sherlock tucked his chin into his chest.

\-- Shaking hands thinly disguised by Sherlock making ineffectual fists; those sensitive instruments, which could at the best of times draw forth the most beautiful sound from a violin, now reduced to helpless quivering.

The adrenaline of the game had fled, leaving Sherlock at the mercy of his body.

"Right," John said, and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock flinched.

"What was that?" John asked.

"What was what?" Sherlock responded irritably.

"You flinched. I saw it." John pressed more firmly on Sherlock's shoulder, grasping the muscle beneath the jacket. "Why did you flinch?"

"It was your imagination," Sherlock insisted.

"It certainly was not," John complained. He hauled Sherlock up, bringing one familiar face to another. "Why did you flinch?"

Sherlock's eyes, so piercing, were overly bright. Physical pain, perhaps. Emotional pain? John didn't like to think about it. The crack in the lens. The fly in the ointment. 

Sherlock's heart.

"Victor Trevor," Sherlock said, and John felt vindicated. And quite stupid. Of course Sherlock was still reeling from the revelations of the night.

Sherlock couldn't trust _his own memory_. Sherlock couldn't trust _himself_.

It had to be unnerving, to say the least. For Sherlock, intolerable.

"What about Victor Trevor?" John asked softly. Let Sherlock talk it out, he thought. Anything to distract him from weakness.

"I got him killed."

John shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Eurus killed him." 

"Because he was my friend."

"Eurus killed him," John repeated more firmly, his fingers digging into Sherlock's shoulder.

"Because I cared for him," Sherlock continued. He broke John's gaze, looked away. "It's never the fall," he murmured.

"What does that mean?"

"It means…" Sherlock's eyes were clear, strong. Penetrating. "It means nothing."

"Sherlock--" John began. And then Sherlock kissed him.

It was brief. It lasted forever. It was dry. It was heated. Sherlock's lips, which he had seen curled in displeasure and parted with delight, tasted of need.

Need for what? "I know what you're doing," John said. "Stop distracting me."

"Am I?" Sherlock asked, somewhat breathlessly. His chest was heaving, not like some romance novel heroine but as if he'd just run a long race. "Distracting you?"

"You can't distract me. You need medical attention." John rather felt breathless himself. And, to his dismay, out of control. The little voice in his head called Mary said ruefully, _Maybe control is not all it's cut out to be, my love._

"I really don't," Sherlock said. And dropped out of John's grasp, sinking back onto the sofa. He sat upright this time, however, legs splayed before him and hands grasped together, though still quaking slightly. He bowed his head to his clenched hands, then tapped his forehead several times. "I need to see Eurus," he said, his voice somewhat muffled as he spoke into his chest.

John took a step back. Out of kissing range. His hand lit on the nearest object, grabbed it, and tossed it to Sherlock. He meant to make a point, to show Sherlock that his body was not his own. As he predicted, Sherlock missed. The picture of Mary fell to the rug, thankfully with the glass unbroken. John felt rather as if he had taken out his service revolver and shot himself. Sherlock picked up the frame carefully, rubbing his thumb across Mary's visage.

"I'm sorry," he said, and there was something John never thought he'd heard in Sherlock's tone before. Unvarnished, naked truth. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."

_Which of us do you think he's talking to?_ Mary asked in John's head. John was not sure of the answer. Both, maybe. Neither. Maybe he was talking to Victor Trevor.

"There's nothing to forgive," John tried. 

Sherlock's head rose, eyes flashing. "Do you really believe that?" He stood, reached out and touched those long, shaking fingers to John's lips. "Do you think I don't know I need to do penance?"

John turned away, leaving Sherlock with a hand outstretched. "Is that what I am?" he demanded, blood rushing in his ears. "Penance?"

He heard rather than saw Sherlock replace the picture frame on the end table. "No," Sherlock said softly. "You're not penance." He put his hand on John's shoulder this time, turned him. "You're temptation."

"I'm bloody well not," John protested.

_You are_ , Mary said.

"You are," Sherlock said.

John took the initiative this time. Pressed their lips together, stole Sherlock's breath and swallowed him whole. The height difference made the whole thing slightly uncomfortable, so John solved that by kicking Sherlock's legs out from underneath him and pushing them both back onto the sofa. He covered Sherlock's body with his. 

"Is this what you want?" John asked, not quite sure of his own answer. His body sang yes. His head shouted no.

Then he sneezed. 

That was, perhaps, to be expected when one spent the evening in a well, half-drowned and still damp. It broke the spell, however. Sherlock started shaking, laughter reverberating in his chest where he was sprawled beneath John. John couldn't help it; he laughed too. Laughed until he nearly cried. Laughed, and laughed.

But didn't move away. Stayed splayed over Sherlock. When they finally stopped, laughter subsiding, Sherlock rolled his arms across John's back, holding him in a comfortable embrace. John found that his own arms had come to rest at Sherlock's side. They seemed to fit.

It ought to have been extremely uncomfortable, lying on the sofa with his best friend. Instead, it felt right.

Oh Mary, he thought. What in the hell am I to do?

Sherlock solved the problem by falling asleep.

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly, when he realised that Sherlock's silence was a little too calm. "Sherlock?" he persisted.

Sherlock, his cheek resting on John's shoulder, let out a heavy breath. Almost a sigh.

John resisted the urge to pinch him. "So help me Sherlock, if you're pretending to be asleep I will find the remains of your violin and feed them to you."

No answer. Well and truly asleep, then.

John laid there, his best friend asleep beneath him, and considered his options. There weren't any, really.

He went to sleep too.

It had, after all, been a ridiculously long day.

* 

John was playing with Rosie when Sherlock finally woke. Sherlock disappeared into the loo while John talked nonsense words to Rosie, who had been discreetly returned by one of Mycroft's minions in the early hours.

When Sherlock came back, he was in a combative mood. "You obviously don't 'got' her nose. Why do children enjoy that?"

John refrained from commenting that Sherlock had been a child once. It struck him as something best not mentioned, given the night before.

"It wasn't a distraction, you know," Sherlock said.

Well that was that, then.

"How are you?" John asked, ignoring that line of discussion.

Sherlock put out a hand, rock steady. "It was a kiss, not a distraction."

"You've never kissed me before," John said, dangling his fingers in front of Rosie to keep her occupied. As if it was perfectly normal to have a talk on a Wednesday morning about one's best friend kissing one after having been nearly blown up, concussed, and half-drowned not long before. 

Life with Sherlock Holmes was never dull.

"I'd never--" Sherlock stumbled verbally. It wasn't something that John was used to experiencing. He'd known Sherlock at his most scathing (routinely), at his most heartfelt ("I vow," he'd said), but grasping for words was not a Sherlockian trait.

"Do you want tea?" John asked.

Sherlock huffed. "Now who is distracting whom?"

John lifted Rosie, who was starting to fuss, and rocked her a few times. "It's well past morning. This one has had her breakfast. I thought perhaps you might want some too."

Sherlock threw himself down on the sofa, drawing his legs up and curling his arms around them. Perfect imitation of a spoiled brat, John thought.

"Here," he said, giving Rosie to Sherlock, forcing Sherlock to take her. Sherlock held her extended for a moment, then sat her on his lap and settled back into the cushions.

"I'm not good with children, you know," he said.

"She's not children, she's Rosie," John said as he moved to make tea. "And yes, I had noticed that you're crap with children. Utter pants."

He'd never really had the chance to be a child, John thought. Not with an insufferable older brother and a predatory younger sister. Only for a brief time had he been a child, with Victor Trevor. His best friend.

The one Eurus killed.

John's hand shook a little as he spooned sugar into the tea, and he felt rather like taking a shot of something stronger. Sherlock got people killed. Sherlock, who was currently holding his daughter like she was a thing rather than a person, got the people closest to him killed. 

The thought that Sherlock could, with casual efficiency, get his daughter killed chilled him more than any of Eurus' wanton cruelty.

"I made a vow, you know," Sherlock said. John looked back, saw that Sherlock had shifted Rosie so that she was sitting contently on his knee. "I intend to keep it."

"How did you know what I was thinking?"

Fruitless question. Sherlock did not, apparently, feel like providing an answer. Something to do with John's stillness, the number of times he'd stirred the tea, and deductive reasoning, no doubt.

_You might as well say magic, or plot device,_ Mary suggested.

"Are we going to talk about the kiss?" Sherlock demanded. And then, in a light voice, because Rosie was looking at him, added, "Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye." He jostled his knee a bit, and Rosie produced a happy bubble of spit.

"We are not," John said. He sipped the tea, realized that he'd added far too much sugar, and started again. "We are not, because it was a normal human reaction to stress, not the start of a romantic attachment." 

Sherlock snorted. "It's far too late for that," he objected. "Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie."

"What does that mean?"

"Did you know that the verse once read 'Four and twenty naughty boys baked in a pye'?"

John sighed. "I did not. And that wasn't the thing. The other thing. What did you mean by the other thing?"

Sherlock lifted Rosie and cuddled her to his chest. "I've been flirting with you since the hour we met. Or do you think I wink at everybody?"

_Told you,_ said Mary.

"Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?"

John gave up on the tea and gripped the edge of the sink tightly. "Sherlock, you made it quite clear early on that you were not attracted to me."

"Denial," Sherlock said. His voice dropped to a near whisper, "The king was in his counting house, counting out his money."

"You had a terrible shock last night," John said. The sink had two dirty dishes in it, he realised. He'd not noticed that. One was a coffee mug that was permanently stained with a trace of Mary's lipstick. "You have been high for weeks, your body is a wreck, Eurus played havoc with your mind, and our--" he amended, "-- _your_ flat was bombed. I suppose you should stay here until we can rebuild. You're my best friend, and I will indeed nurse you if that's what you need."

"The queen was in the parlour, eating bread and honey."

"But you're not in love with me, you've never been in love with me, and even if you were -- how would I know this wasn't some passing thing? Adrenaline? Chasing another high? Shock? You're a pompous prick who can't even hold a baby properly, much less care for one. And Rosie is a deal breaker. She's part of the package now. She needs safety, and security, not a father that runs off across London chasing thieves and murderers. And certainly not a…" John waved a hand. " _Godfather_ who can't be trusted to take care of himself much less a child." He gave a deep sigh. "I won't be penance for Victor Trevor."

He turned. Sherlock was asleep again, nestled in the cushions. As was Rosie, cradled against Sherlock's chest. Her tiny hand was clenched around his index finger. _See, a perfect fit,_ Mary said.

John went to the sofa, knelt down, and put his palm at the side of Sherlock's face.

Sherlock's eyes opened. Not asleep then. "John," he said quietly. "You're not penance. And I know that I have taken you for granted so many times in the past. I _did_ notice the balloon, I promise you. It was more fun to pretend that I hadn't. But I'm well past having fun at your expense. Because I love you." Sherlock shifted Rosie slightly, pressing a kiss to the sleeping baby's head. "And I love her. I want her to have the childhood that I did not. I want her to be safe, and secure, and loved. I want to live my life making sure that you are both safe, and secure, and loved."

He met John's gaze, unflinching. Determined.

John knew when all was lost. "Distract me again," he said to Sherlock.

And so, without disturbing Rosie, Sherlock did.

*

Sherlock was still utter pants at the day-to-day caring for a child. But there is the story of how Sherlock Holmes fell in love with my mother. For his sister made him realise that the journey of childhood was a formative thing, more so than even he had known. She made him see that he wanted to be a part of the making of Rosamund Mary Watson.

The fact that John Watson came with the deal simply made it all the sweeter. In the nursery rhyme, you know, the king's doctor made everything better when a blackbird pecked off the maid's nose. The doctor sewed it on again, so neatly that the seam was never seen.

Granddad John was a very good doctor, it turns out. Mary still had to give her blessing (she did, as you may know), but Granddad made a kind of pact with Grandfather Sherlock that day, and they never broke it. Rosie grew up to be thoughtful and kind, and if her child refused to talk, well it just meant a little more patience was needed. Because children learn at their elders' knees, and I learned love at theirs.

Many people have stories to tell about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I hope that you will share yours.

Tag, you're it.


End file.
